GLAMOUR (Incipit)

Part I: Les Bijoux de ZHIZHU

It had never occurred to Chloé Sun that a 2:1 could ruin her life.

Her first day home for the winter holidays was supposed to be average, a normality that she celebrated with a long, scalding hot shower unencumbered by water bills. She had spent the better part of her day aboard various trains, journeying from Oxford to the Parisian suburbs as she thought of nothing else but her father’s Peking Duck and her younger sisters’ expensive shower gel. But halfway through her shampoo, the notifications on her class group chat were seriously getting on her nerves.

Chloé stepped out to a misty bathroom where the air was drinkable and lingered on her skin. Marigold and Jade spammed the conversation with rants about several professors, but Chloé rolled her eyes. Whatever subpar grade they received was likely what they deserved. Other students tentatively asked to compare their scores, a practice very few ended up participating in. At Oxford University, it had always felt like it was every man for himself.

Chloé opened her Fall Term transcript, sending foam-laced water dripping down her phone screen. But Clémence suspended her task as she banged against the bathroom door, begging her sister to let her use the room.

“I’m busy!” Chloé shouted. “Go downstairs!”

“I can’t. Bàba is using it.”

Chloé groaned as she wrapped herself in a towel, nearly falling over from her little sister hurtling by as soon as she had unlocked the door. She sat at the foot of her bed, anxiously zooming in on her transcript to verify the name of the professor who had tarnished her academic legacy: Professor Adder. In the back of her mind, she knew that refusing his off-campus tutoring sessions would cost her.

“You’re getting water all over your bed,” Clémence interrupted the rage simmering beneath Chloé’s skin.

She looked up, her eyes a mixture of apathy and annoyance, and she breezed past her sister to lock herself in the bathroom once more. She sent Marigold a private text before finishing her shower.

9:33 PM — Chloé: hey what did u get in thermodynamics?

9:34 PM — MG: i barely passed, got a 43... :/ hbu?

9:49 PM — Chloé: 67

11:24 — MG: that’s amazing!

Chloé could not find the words to reply to such an ignorant text. Marigold knew how important getting a First was, and instead of calling out such a gross injustice, she had decided to be supportive. It was as if Marigold believed 67 was the grade she actually deserved. At least one of us was marked based on merit, Chloé thought as she chucked her phone on the counter to slather moisturizer on her face and neck.

The steam from her shower dissipated into the cool hallway air as she trudged back to her bedroom, trying to suppress the growing knot in her stomach. Worse than being unfair, she knew that her grade was completely unacceptable. She began to make a mental list of the excuses she would be giving her father when he asked for her report. She realized that the preservation of her integrity simply would not be enough.

Professor Adder’s private tutoring sessions were infamous in the Department of Materials. But they had also managed to remain hush-hush for over a decade according to the alumni, who had also warned the class to follow in their silent footsteps. Professor Adder had offered Chloé a few sessions, which she had politely declined on the basis that she did not need them. She was only finding out the consequences of refusing such a privilege.

Nestled under her blanket, Chloé silently cursed her past self’s naïveté and ignored the warm tears burgeoning in her eyes. She squeezed them shut, hoping that the past few hours had been just a terrible dream, a mere glitch in the usually impeccable Oxford system.

The following morning, Chloé awoke to the aroma of her father's cooking wafting up the stairs. She threw on her bathrobe, her footsteps heavy as she exited her room.

In spite of the tantalizing smell, the kitchen table was more chaotic than inviting — the plate of youtiao remained untouched as Clémence and Claire devoured their Trésor cereal like two soldiers preparing for battle. In need of some strength of her own, Chloé grabbed a bowl from a cupboard, pouring soybean milk to dip the dough sticks in.

“Where’s Bàba?” she asked the twins.

“He’s in the study,” Clémence replied.

Just then, Taolin appeared in the doorway, greeting his daughters with his usual impassivity.

Chloé’s appetite suddenly vanished as her father sat across from her.

“How was your term?” He asked, cutting straight to what truly mattered.

“It was fine,” she said quickly, focusing on her plate. She fidgeted with her napkin to mask the telltale trembling of her hands. “Nothing too exciting.”

“Any difficult classes?”

“Come on, Bàba. You know me.”

“Hmm.” Taolin turned to his youngest daughters, pushing the plate of youtiao in their direction. “This is a real breakfast,” he admonished as Clémence and Claire took one each, shoving it in their mouths to return to their respective bowls of sugar and chemicals quickly.

“This will not make you a better dancer,” he continued to lecture, aiming his reprisals at Claire.

Chloé exhaled quietly, relieved that the spotlight had shifted. But the unease in her stomach remained, gnawing at her insides.

“I know, Bàba,” Claire acquiesced, though she made no moves to repudiate her cereal.

“I read that porridge is good for ballet dancers,” Chloé interjected, hoping to keep the attention firmly planted on Claire.

“And where did you read that in? The Oxford uni newspaper?” Claire asked, her tone laden with mockery.

“No, it was in NOIR,” Chloé replied, matter-of-factly.

Claire looked away and continued to eat. “I knew that,” she mumbled.

After breakfast, Taolin called Chloé into the study as the twins hurriedly retreated to their bedrooms. And for the first time, the possibilities that her life generously offered had ceased to be endless.